


Pack Radio

by hannathing



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, College Radio, College!AU, Hales are still dead, Hand Jobs, M/M, human!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:23:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannathing/pseuds/hannathing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles finds the poster when he’s checking his student mail boxes, and laughs himself silly. How could he not? It’s a wolf in headphones howling into a mic, with “Pack Radio” and a url emblazoned around it. He finds himself laughing for days. Finally, he tunes in to the damn broadcast and finds the main DJ, “The Alpha” has a voice that seems to be one of the few things that helps Stiles chill out long enough for him to get even a few hours of sleep. It works really well, until Stiles starts calling in every night to harass the Alpha.</p><p>(abandoned -- I'm sorry, folks, I won't be finishing this story)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, someday, there might be sex.
> 
> But for now, let there be stupidity and maybe angst!

Stiles spots the poster when he’s failing for third time to get the combo right on his student mail box. Suddenly getting the damn thing open is ten times harder, because he’s fighting back laughter from how bad the poster is. He’s bent over, face close to the lock, the poster looming over him. How can he not laugh? It’s a wolf with headphones howling into a microphone, promoting the college’s student run radio station. Stiles is about to give up on ever getting that care package his dad sent him when an older student, a guy who looks like he’s been in college for about 8 years, taps his shoulder.

“Need some help?” His voice is smooth, and Stiles is caught by his eyes, a light greyish green color that he can’t think of the right name for.

“Uh, yeah, thanks,” Stiles stutters out, moving out of the way for the older student to help. 

“What’s the combo?” Stiles stares for a bit, distracted by the sleekness of his movements, the perfect way his muscles coil under his Henley as he grabs for the lock. Blinking as the student stares from where he’s crouching, Stiles jolts and prattles off the numbers. The door swings open moments later, and suddenly he’s walking away.

Stiles is still for a very short moment, before he catches the poster out of the corner of his eye, and wheezes out a laugh. Finally grabbing the raggedly wrapped care package, he slams the mail box door shut and runs off to his dorm, so he can open after his work study. That he’s late for.

Again.

\---  
Every time he goes to check his mail box, or to get a drink, or passes a bulletin board, or to do anything outside of his dorm, Stiles sees the “Pack Radio” poster. He starts griping to Scott, his best friend about it, over facebook and skype.

“No, seriously, I think the poster is stalking me. Like it’s just one poster on campus, and the radio isn’t real, and it’s just the poster following me around, being everywhere I happen to be.” Scott laughs a little, and rolls his eyes. “Or maybe it’s one person stalking me, and moving this one poster around—“

“Or maybe they want people like you to listen to the radio station so they put the posters everywhere?”

“Sshhhh,” Stiles shushes his friend. “That is a non-option.” Scott barks out a laugh.

College had been hard for Stiles at first. His only friend decided to be a tradesman and stayed in their hometown of Beacon Hills. Which is also where his high school sweetheart was going to school not half an hour away. So Stiles went off to school, four hours away in the opposite direction. It wasn’t like Stiles had lots of friends in high school, and he knew virtually no one at first at his college. The first month had been spent in his room, trying to break through the internet blocks on World of Warcraft, with meals by himself in the Den (as the students called the cafeteria, everything was wolf themed it seemed) before Stiles finally joined an intramural lacrosse team and made a few friends. He even met a few people he had classes with and started going to parties. He even kissed a few people.

But it was still hard, his best friend, practically his other half living so far away. Sometimes it gets lonely being around people who’ve known you only a few months. Stiles thinks it’s a little sad trying to make that bond again, telling all the stories, like he’s giving them all a second-hand chance at being his life-long friend, unlike Scott who was front-line for it all.

“Shit, Alison is calling. I’m sorry, Sti—“

“No man, it’s cool. Answer it. Text me later!” and he hangs up the skype call. He takes a moment to stare at the screen, Scott’s icon looking out at him. He sighs and smiles a little, snapping his laptop shut and grabbing his favorite sweats to head over to the student gym.

\--

It’s been three days since Stiles slept. He marvels at this fact, and how fucking difficult college really is. Like, they warned him in high school, but they didn’t really warn him, you know? They magically forgot to mention ten-page-single-spaced-essays-that-are-due-in-five-days and five-hour-labs paired with group-projects-with-45-minute-long-presentations and how they’ll all be due at the same time. 

And really, everything is as done as it can be. Stiles is just so keyed up and stressed out every time he tries to sleep, as he starts to doze, he jolts awake in a wave of panic and finds himself at his desk, shirtless in pajama pants, writing, rewriting, researching and re-doing every assignment he isn’t completely sure on. The employees of the campus coffee shop all know him by name and exactly how he likes his black coffee just a bit over roasted, precisely like the coffee from the police station.

He hasn’t talked to Scott or his Dad in just as many days, the last care package from his dad and Melissa sitting under his desk, half the candy eaten. Stiles doesn’t feel alone, he really doesn’t.

Regardless of what he feels, he’s staring mindlessly at his laptop. Suddenly, the fucking poster, the stupid Pack Radio wolf poster flashes in his mind and he angrily pulls up the url from the bottom that will be forever branded into his brain. Just to look, just to finally prove the damn posters are stalking him. 

What he finds is that the radio is run by six students altogether, with the head DJ being a person calling themself the Alpha. Mostly they talk about campus events, student politics, hold interviews, and play what music they can afford the copyright on. Clicking around, Stiles finds a schedule and sees that the radio is broadcasting and the Alpha is on. He also finds out that the radio doesn’t have an genuine frequency but is actually an internet stream. Stiles finds the link to it, and clicks.

“—member wolves, this is the nightly broadcast with the Alpha on your very own Pack Radio. Up next is Howling at the Moon by the Ramones and then we’ll check how the wolves on the field are doing.” The voice is smooth and rolls out from his laptop speakers. Stiles leans back in his chair, letting it wash over him, opening his eyes when the music starts.

It isn’t an hour later when Stiles is lying in bed, the Alpha’s voice filling his small room, and sending him to sleep.

\--

It becomes Stiles’ thing. Stiles always has a thing, a newest obsession. For years it was Lydia, then Danny, and lacrosse all throughout, then WoW, lots of Wow, and hundreds of other things through the years. And so now it’s Pack Radio and the Alpha. Soon it’s the only way he can sleep, if that soft and velvety voice is seeping out his laptop speakers, he knows that isn’t healthy at all. But Stiles has never really had a healthy thing to fill his life since his mom died.

He doesn’t worry about it.

He knows the obsession will end soon enough, and the next thing will be something like Extreme Frisbee or even Frisbee Golf, his campus does have a course. Or maybe he’ll try out for the school’s actual lacrosse team and get back into that and practice instead of half-heartedly working out and playing games in little tournaments they get knocked out of right away.

The problem is its half way through December, and finals are just around the corner, and Stiles is still listening to the Pack every night, for the Alpha. He’s even gotten to know the other DJs, has a class with one of them. They don’t use pseudonyms, only the Alpha. He loves each of the DJs, like their little stories and asides, the interviews with Boyd, the call for equality and representation by Erica, and the promotions for wonderful charities and opportunities to help around in the community by Isaac.

But the Alpha is by far the best.

He rarely tells stories, and when he does, they’re warped little fairy tales with the wolf as the hero, and tells the listeners they’re the best. Then he plays songs about the moon, other rock and alt rock songs, finally smoothly gives the football or soccer or whatever is playing that week’s score. Usually he queues a dozen songs, plays them, interrupts to say what he played and starts the process again.

Sometimes around 3am on a Friday night, he’ll talk about himself. These are Stiles’s favorite.

It’s late on a Wednesday night, with dead week looming, and an even bigger essay due tomorrow. The Pack is on, Erica and Isaac holding a healthy debate, songs breaking it up every few minutes as Stiles pounds out his essay. Suddenly, there’s the Alpha, calling them both idiots and negating both of their arguments with a slick sentence. Stiles’ fingers halt over the keyboard, listening intently. The Alpha announces his section for the night, giving the theme of songs for the full moon tonight.

An idea, a horrible horrible idea, starts rolling around in his head. And Stiles is not going to do it, nope nope nope. At least, for half an hour he denies, then he goes so far as to look up the number for listeners to call in with. He puts it in his phone, and then has it memorized 15 minutes later because he keeps looking at it.

He lasts all of an hour before Stiles is calls into the Pack Radio.

He isn’t disappointed when Erica answers and not the Alpha. No, he is not.

“Pack Radio, what do you want?” Stiles barks out a laugh.

“That isn’t polite!”

“Yeah, fuck you. Who is this and what can I do to make you hang up?” Stiles smiles, and knows Erica isn’t angry. He can hear the grin in her laugh, the one she wears when she leans over the teacher’s desk in another one of her low cut shirts.

“Tell the sourwolf he shouldn’t be so mean to you guys. The debate was awesome.” And then he pulls the phone from his ear to hang up. Erica’s surprised laughter rings out for a second before he thumbs the end call button.

\--

Stiles calls in again the next day. This time it’s because the Alpha is following some ridiculous game no one cares about when there is a perfectly good Mets game to be following instead. Erica answers again, and when he voices his complaint, she stifles a laugh and says she’ll put him through ASAP. This time Erica takes his name.

“So, I’m told we have a… Stiles? Calling in with an opinion on sports. Talk to me, wolf.” Stiles hears the Alpha in his ear, and as well as slightly delayed from the stream on his laptop.

“Hey man, yeah, love the show, love the music and whole thing, but you need to reevaluate your choice of teams to follow. The Mets are kicking ass this year, and you should do them justice. I don’t want to hear about the Cardinals. Come on man!” He says it all in a rush. There’s a stunned silence and then, he swears to god, the Alpha growls.

“Glad you like the show, Stiles. But it’s my show, and if I like the Cardinals, then I guess I’ll follow them. Let’s see how the Mets do next week and we’ll go from there. Thanks for calling, always great to hear from a fan.” Just before the line goes dead, Stiles has a moment of insanity.

“Come on! Don’t be such a Sourwolf.” The line goes dead, but even Stiles can hear the delay, hears “sourwolf” ring out over the stream. He hears a laugh down the hall, but he doubts it has to do with the broadcast. 

“Well, wolves and ladies, it’s back to the music and then we’ll have Erica with the weather and on campus events this week. Up next is some Florence and the Machine, requested by Corey from the Soc department.”

Stiles laughs nervously, takes a deep breath and runs a hand over his cropped hair. He eyes his laptop and decides it’s time to get back to that essay.

\--

It becomes a ritual. He calls in almost every night, sometimes two and three times a night. And every time he calls, he calls out the Alpha for being a sourwolf. A lot of the time, the Alpha sasses him back. As the semester draws to a close, Stiles’s stress levels drop a little and he finds himself with some free time.

He gets another horrible horrible idea.

“So,” he starts, leaning towards Erica in their Anthropology class. “I love Pack Radio. You guys should do a party, for the fans, and to meet the DJs.” Erica smiles a wicked smile.

“You just want to meet the Alpha.”

“Maybe.” Stiles shifts under her gaze. “Why do you always call him the Alpha? Doesn’t he have a name?”

“He asked us to,” she says, shrugging. “He’s helped us all a lot, all of us at the radio. Especially Boyd, Isaac and me. So, if he wants to be called the Alpha when talking about the radio.” She shrugs again, clearly uninterested.

“Fine, whatever, I guess. But there’s like 5 days left of school before its finals, you guys should have a party. Like, inviting people to relax and meet the faces of Pack Radio or something. AndsoIcanmeettheAlphapleasepleaseplease.” Stiles is not above begging. It isn’t shameless, nope nope nope.

“I’ll make it happen, because a party right now would be pretty nice.” Stiles crows in triumph and fist pump, interrupting. “But, I’m not sure the Alpha will be very happy. It might just a staff thing. You’ll hear about it on the radio soon.”

Stiles finds he actually likes Erica. They chatter and make nerdy references that they both get. It seems underneath all the cleavage and man eater attitude, there’s an actual person. It’s probably a part of the ugly duckling phenomenon, Stiles thinks, ugly in or ignored in high school, and attractive in college, so they’re a beauty with an actual personality. He wonders what she was like in high school and is a little sad they’re only just now meeting.

Close to the end of class, Stiles blurts out “So wait, does this make us friends?”

Erica’s grin is wicked and he knows the answer.

\--

He starts eating lunch with her, and it’s nice. Nice to sit at a table with a few people to eat instead of alone or with a group he doesn’t really fit in with. Stiles meets Boyd and Isaac from the radio, and learns that Erica and the boys are very close. That they run the radio together with the Alpha because of a common something, almost like a cult.

Or a Pack.

And Stiles is all for that. He thinks it’s cool, even if he can’t place their common thread. Which normally, wouldn’t bother a person, but as the nosey son of a sheriff, he can’t let it go. He notices when he talks about high school friends, Boyd gets standoffish, and when he talks about his dad too much, Isaac will sometimes just leave. There was even once he tried to high five, Isaac, and the kid flinched.

Well, at least he’s got Isaac figured out.

Stiles notices the three are pretty close, almost always touching, and if he sees one, another isn’t far behind. He’d say Boyd and Erica are dating, but really he thinks all three are dating.

The party gets announced on the Pack Radio and there’s a facebook event that he clicks yes before the page is completely loaded. Then he notices the address. Stiles texts Erica about it, asking whose house and if he should drive.

\--

Stiles ends up walking to the party, because it turns out, the house is like three blocks from his dorm. The house is nice, a little small, but clean and well maintained. There’s no doubt where the party is, with the house lit-up with Christmas lights and cars parked all around and in the yard. Taking a deep breath, Stiles reminds himself to take it easy on the alcohol, no need to make a fool of himself tonight.

Inside the house is a little crowded, and hot. There’s music coming from somewhere, but people are mostly standing around, talking, laughing, drinks in hand. Stiles weaves his way through the crowd, looking for Erica, or a familiar face. Mostly Erica though.

He finds her close to the source of music, in the basement. She’s dressed in a clingy red dress, with bright red lipstick and black stilettos. She looks amazing, of course. Stiles is walking towards her, when she spots him and laughs.

“You could have at least dressed up!” And Stiles looks down at himself, his standard red hoodie, plaid shirt with a loose shirt underneath, his nice jeans and sneakers.

“Hey, who do I pay for drinks?” The facebook page had said to “pay $10 to Derek, if you want to drink”. Which is a pretty sweet deal, and totally fair. Erica points, and Stiles leans to see, spotting a guy close to his own height with dark hair and broad shoulders. He can’t see his face from here.

“That’s Derek, this is his house.” Nodding, Stiles stops by the table covered with bottles and mixers, a cooler of ice and beer tucked underneath. He knows he’s a little bit of a light weight, so Stiles mixes a light rum and coke, more coke than rum.

By the time Stiles gets to the place where the guy Erica had pointed out as Derek was, he’s moved on and Stiles finds himself standing in between a few groups talking. He jumps in to a few groups, adds to the conversations, then asks if anyone had seen Derek. Mostly, he’s pointed to the kitchen. Moving towards the kitchen, Stiles finishes his drink and drops the cup into a trash can.

Derek, the tall guy in a dark fitted t-shirt is scooping ice into a drink for a girl, smiling vapidly up into his face. His back is turned towards Stiles, the girl trying to lean into him. He has a hand on her upper arm, steadying her, pushing her away a little. Finally, he guides her to the other doorway of the kitchen, pushing her into the living room beyond. Stiles comes up behind him, his head buzzing a little.

“Derek?” He turns to look at Stiles, and Stiles can’t place it, but he seems incredibly familiar. There’s a look of slight confusion, the quirk of the lips, and rise of some very expressive eyebrows. “Erica told me who you were. Oh, and to give you this.” Stiles reaches into his pocket, digging past his phone and grabbing the crisp bill. “This house is pretty nice, you live here? How many rooms is it? Do you rent, or own?” He holds the bill out to Derek, but he makes no move to take it.

“Its two, but only I live here right now, and I rent. Kind of looking for another person to move in.” Stiles swears he knows Derek, his voice and how his eyes are a color he doesn’t know the name of, but wishes he did. He fidgets, twisting, folding and unfolding the bill in his hand.

“Oh, dude, maybe me? Not to like, jump into this without thinking, but my dad’s a cop and he isn’t paid the best, so living off campus would save him money and maybe I could get a different job and make it less rough for him.” Derek nods a little. “But, I’ve known you all of two minutes, so probably not me?”

“I’ll keep you on the shortlist.” Derek tugs the now weathered bill from Stiles’s nervous fingers. “You had anything to drink yet?”

“Oh. Just one, a rum and coke, but I’m kind of a light weight.” Stiles laughs. “I want to take it easy, long drive in the morning.” Derek nods again. “You drinking anything tonight?” Derek stiffens.

“I don’t like drinking much.” Its Stiles’s turn to nod, and he plasters on a smile.

“Nothing wrong with that, dude. Don’t need to drink to have fun anyways.” Derek nods, and an awkward silence stretches between them.

“Living room?” Derek says, gesturing with a lean of his. Stiles nods and they find a good place to watch the frat boys plays beer pong.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to follow me on my tumblr! I put blurbs there sometimes :) http://lemonyellowhue.tumblr.com/

 

Its hours later, a third or fourth drink in Stiles’ hand, and he’s sitting on the couch with Derek in the living room, a perfect view of the beer pong table. Their thighs are touching, and Derek keeps shifting, standing to play host, and every time he sits, he presses close to Stiles. And Stiles kind of really likes it.

They watch as Erica decimates yet another opponent on the beer pong table. 

“How does she do it?” Stiles wonders. “How is she not plastered?” 

“I don’t know,” Derek grumbles. “But I do know she’s drinking mai tais instead of beers.” 

“ _What?_ ” Derek shrugs. “How has she not died of alcohol poisoning?” 

“I have no clu—“

“It’s all the medication, Derek! Been on so many pain killers and shit all my life, this is nothing,” Erica crows, interrupting as she tosses the ping pong ball, scoring her winning cup. Derek sighs, a small smile on his face and shakes his head.

“If I have to call your mom or your doctor again, I’m not going to be happy.”

“Actually, I think its Boyd’s turn to call,” Isaac pipes up from his hiding space in the corner, cup in hand. Stiles almost didn’t notice him at first, and he’s pretty sure his cup has nothing alcoholic in it. He takes a sip of his own cup and leans a little into Derek. Stiles glances at his phone. It’s late, and most people have left, just a few stragglers and Pack Radio people left.

“I should probably get going.” He moves to stand, but Derek grabs his arm, stopping him. Erica doesn’t break eye contact with her target, but makes a vocal sound of disappointment.

“No, Stiles, staaaaay,” she whines, taking out yet another cup. “Derek, let him stay in the spare bedroom.”

“No, it’s fine, Erica. I need to go. It’s late. Well, early now, I have a lot to get done, and work, and have to call my dad and, I need to go.” He feels adult and responsible, wants only to lean into Derek and make a bad decision, but Stiles fights off that temptation. Maybe he won’t regret it in the morning. Sighing, Erica nods.

“I’d hug you, but I need to beat this guy’s ass, again.” Stiles laughs.

“Yeah, Beer Pong Queen, you got it. See you in January. Soc together, right?”

“Oh god, don’t remind me.” Stiles laughs again and waves, making his way for the back door that he had come in through. Derek follows him.

“You alright to get home?”

“I should be fine,” Stiles says, nodding. “I mean, I didn’t drink very much.” The words have barely left his mouth when he flails at the screen door, successfully smacking himself in the arm and face with it. Derek hums a little at that.

“Very smooth. I’ll walk you home.” He snarks, and Stiles makes a face, but accepts the offer.

They walk for a little while in a companionable silence, arms sometimes bumping together, their breath fogging the air in front of their faces. There’s a frost on the ground, and their footsteps crunch when they step into the grass. Stiles is a little sad there isn’t a snow, but hey, California. He knows that a white Christmas is kind of a pipe dream this far south. Derek speaks, breaking the silence.

“Done with finals?” he asks, then cringes. Stiles laughs.

“Um, yes. Friday night, I’m done with finals,” he replies, a little gleefully. Derek sighs, and levels him with a look, his eyebrows expressing his disdain. “Hey, you’re the one who asked about my finals. You don’t get to, I don’t even know how to describe what you’re doing, eyebrow waggle me.” Derek’s eye brows rise at that, silently questioning him. Stiles laughs.

 “No!” Stiles cries, turning to him and trying to cover the offending eyebrows with his hands. “Stop it! I said you can’t do that.” Derek dodges his hands, moving closer and crowding him. Stiles’ breath catches in his chest and he looks into Derek’s eyes. “God dammit, what color are your eyes? I can’t figure it out.”

Derek huffs a laugh, but instead of answering, he wraps a strong around Stiles’ wrist, using it to pull him closer. His face is close now, tilted down a little, his eyes focused on Stiles’ lips. “Is it ok?” he asks. “Is it ok if I kiss you?”

 

Stiles answers by surging forward and closing the short distance himself. His eyes flutter closed, and he leans his body into Derek’s. The kiss is sweet and slow, Derek’s big hand on his wrist still, his other on the back of his neck, fingers scratching at the short hair there. They break apart, breathing deeply, and Derek presses his forehead to Stiles’. Derek moves to grab Stiles’ hands.

“Is this ok?” Stiles smiles at the repeated question.

“Uh, dude, I don’t know if you noticed, but you’re gorgeous. I’m so very ok. I would like to do this more, with more touching, in many different positions.” Derek huffs a little, and Stiles recognizes it as a laugh. “Please?” Derek answers a lot like Stiles did earlier, by kissing him.  This kiss isn’t as chaste, the two grabbing and pressing hard into the other, tongues fighting for control.

“Mmm, room? My room?” Stiles says, pulling away, panting. Derek nods, but doesn’t move when Stiles starts pulling him down the sidewalk again. “What?”

“I just—“ Derek shakes his head, letting go of Stiles. “I’m sorry.” Immediately, Stiles deflates.

“No, it’s cool. I understand. I mean, you’re you, and I’m,” Stiles pauses, cringes at his next thought. “I’m me, I guess. So I understand.” He starts to turn, to walk home on his own. A hand grabbing his upper arm shocks him.

“No, Stiles, I didn’t – I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just, I don’t want to—“ And Stiles understands, and notices the subtle blush on his face. But that doesn’t stop him from letting Derek continue stumbling to explain himself. “I want more than that with you, I think. And I’d like to go slow. If… if that’s ok, with you, that is.” Stiles smiles widely at Derek. He kisses him, just a quick peck.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

\--

Winter break starts the next day, and Stiles is over the moon to finally being home. With his gas tank full, a hamper of dirty clothes spilling over in the back, he’s set to go. And all honestly, he isn’t completely sure he’ll make it back to Beacon Hills without at least a few breaks, so he’s sure the trip will feel even longer.

“If you get tired, just pull over and nap, lock your doors. If you get bored, call me, or pull over and run around a bit, I know how you get when you’re cooped u—“

“Dad, _dad,_ I know. I’ll see you in like five hours, ok?” Stiles interrupts the sheriff. “I swear I’ll be fine.” He can hear his dad shifting, and a put upon sigh.

“Alright, kiddo. Be safe, I’ll see you then. Love you.”

“Love you too. Bye, Dad.” Stiles finally hangs up, and settles into the driver seat. Mentally preparing himself for the traffic of hundreds of students leaving town at the same time, Stiles glances at his phone. A smile plays on his face as he remembers swapping numbers with Derek last night, and the promise that he can text anytime, _really, Stiles, I swear I’ll answer._

After sending him a text of “Headed out now, text you when I’m home!”, Stiles throws the Jeep into gear.

\--

So, winter break is pretty much a letdown. Lydia didn’t come home, and Danny is crazy busy with his new boyfriend who came home with him. Then there’s Scott being over the moon with Alison being home. Between his apprenticeship and wanting to spend extra time with her, Stiles has barely seen Scott. He’s a little bummed, but he understands. He stills gets to see his bud, and catch up on the newest expansion of WoW, so it isn’t all bad.

Of course, then there’s the texting with Derek. They talk about classes, and a little about their childhoods, but Derek seems to avoid that subject, as well as family and home, like the plague. Sometimes, he’ll mention his sister. But that’s all Stiles hears is his sister, not a name, and no one else.

Stiles lets it lie. Not like he wants to tell his own sob story. Not yet anyways.

So, Stiles plays WoW, plays Call of Duty, makes dinner and tons of healthy food for his dad and purges the house of black listed food. And texts Derek about all of it.

When winter break has just a few days left, Stiles finds himself anxious and excited, and oh god, he can’t wait for classes and Pack Radio to be on air again. Because Stiles has not been sleeping, and he needs to start that shit again.

It’s two days before Stiles is set to drive back, his room is in disarray as he starts his packing process when he gets a text from Derek. And Stiles potentially has a heart attack.

He thunders down the stairs, nearly running into walls, as per usual, until he bursts into the living room where his dad is reading the newspaper. For a moment, Stiles stands, in pajamas, his phone held tightly in his hand. Finally, his dad looks up, questioning look on his face.

“I have a date!”

\--

“When you said, meet for lunch and talk, I totally thought you meant off campus and a date,” Stiles complains, rocking back on the tall stool. Whacking his elbow on the end of the high wood topped table, Stiles hisses and cradles his arm close to his chest. “Not, you know, sitting the art building with you for an hour.”

“I warned you, I’m busy. And have a portfolio review in a few weeks,” Derek says, pausing his hammering. He’s got a thin piece of shiny metal Stiles doesn’t know the name of over another thing he doesn’t know the name of that he’s been hitting and shaping with a hammer. “I need to finish a few things they haven’t seen and a few things that weren’t assignments.”

Stiles sighs like he’s so very put upon. But really he isn’t complaining. Well, he is, but he isn’t. He can’t complain, not with Derek in tight jeans and a wife beater covered in clay as he hammers the metal, biceps bulging.

“God, you are unreal,” Stiles mutters, hoping his voice in the sounds of metal clanging.

“I’m what?” Derek pauses again, looking up, hammer posed. Instead, Stiles smiles vapidly.

“What? I didn’t say anything.”

\--

The first day of Intro to Sociology, the class is assigned a huge group project. Naturally, Erica claims Stiles as her teammate, declaring that they would meet outside of class weekly to work on it and will have it done well before the due date. Because she is not having any of that working up to the deadline shit. Stiles laughs, and agrees. Early semester is usually less busy. He likes the idea of not having to worry about it later.

“But we have to wait until we figure out the new schedule for the radio. I don’t know what nights I’m taking yet.”

“Wait, you mean you guys haven’t figured it out? Shouldn’t the radio be back on air by now?” Stiles asks. “What’re you going to do until then?”

“Hey, we only just got back. And the Alpha’s been super busy. We were thinking of queuing up a huge playlist and just letting it go, and like having pre-recorded announcements that the schedule is under construction.” Erica shrugs. “We don’t have very high ratings, only like a few hundred or so regular listeners. A few days of straight music won’t hurt anyone.” Stiles nods slowly.

“So how’s Boyd and Isaac? We meeting them for lunch?”

“They’re great, break was perfect. Derek took us camping on a preserve.” She moves to stand. “Oh, and speaking of Derek, he has something to tell you, or I will.” Her grin is wicked, and Stiles thinks he should be scared, but mostly he confused.

\--

**To: Derek**   
  
_Erica said something weird?_

Isaac seems lighter, and it’s nice. He’s laughing and he doesn’t seem as nearly as stand-offish as usual. Stiles doesn’t know what happened over break, but he’s glad for him.

“I love being back at school, anything is better than tent in the middle of the winter,” Isaac starts. “But there has to be something inhumane about this food.” He holds up his pizza, and the group of them watch as it literally drips grease.

“I don’t know,” Stiles says, looking down as his phone vibrates. “It isn’t that bad. It’s edible. Just wipe it off.”

**From: Derek**

_What’d she say?_

“Nothing on Grandma Boyd’s cooking,” Erica complains, poking as her mashed potatoes. “I don’t think this is gravy. I think it’s left over grease from breakfast.” She sighs, pushing it away. “Not allowed greasy food…” she mutters and stares sullenly.

**To: Derek**

_Something about a secret? That you have to tell me soon, or she will?_

“Wait, Grandma Boyd? Is Boyd your last name?” Stiles asks, turning to Boyd. “Why didn’t I know this?”

“I don’t like being called by my first name, like you, _Stiles._ And nothing compares to Granny’s cooking.” Erica’s phone goes off, and Stiles looks at his. No reply yet. She laughs, shows it to Boyd and Isaac before quickly typing a reply in her phone. The boys roll their eyes.

“Don’t pick that fight,” Isaac says in a low voice.

“Don’t pick what fight?” Stiles asks.

“Oh, _come on_! He’s going to find out, he isn’t dumb.” Stiles narrows his eyes, notices Boyd watching him. “It isn’t like he’s going to say, if we don’t.”

“Let him do it on his own. Let him go his own pace,” Isaac snaps.

“I think you’re talking about me.” Stiles butts in, and Erica glances at him.

“His own pace is at the speed of dirt, you know this. If he leave this to him, we’ll all graduate before he does anything.”

“It isn’t our place.”

“It is so! He paid for my treatments, my medication, and he got you away from that place, and everything we have is because of him. It’s our turn to help him now!” Erica voice rises, her fist slamming on the table. Boyd places a hand on her arm.

“Erica, you need to calm down. You might have a seizure.” His voice is quiet. She turns on him.

“Don’t you dare, don’t you dare coddle me too. I am fine, I haven’t had one in months.”

“But the food and stress, we need to be careful.” Isaac nods, agreeing with Boyd’s point. Erica looks between the two. Instead of calming, she huffs and walks out of the Den.

“So, what’s going on?” Stiles asks weakly.

\--

It’s a few days past the scene in Den. Erica has been all but ignoring Boyd and Isaac. Whenever she spots Stiles on his way into the Den for a meal, she grabs him by the arm, pulling him away to sit at a crowded table with her Business major friends. Stiles doesn’t say anything. Erica is a lot like Lydia, and he knows all too well how protesting goes with girls like them.

Protests don’t go, in fact.

So, he doesn’t complain. He mostly stays quiet, and talks to her when she speaks directly to him. He doesn’t really fit in this group, and he misses Boyd and Isaac.

But Derek’s been great.

He asked about Stiles’ schedule, and has taken to walking him from his last class to his work study. Stiles kinds of loves it, how Derek holds his hand and gives him a kiss before leaving.

They’re walking to the office that Stiles works at as a secretary, and he has to bring it up because its driving him mad. It’s been rattling around in his little ADHD head for too many days, and Derek is lucky he’s last this long, honestly.

“What is it that Erica’s going to tell me if you don’t? And can’t you make them stop fighting?” Stiles doesn’t whine, he refuses. It isn’t whining if his voice goes a little high and he stops walking, still holding Derek’s hand.  “Also, what is this? What are we doing?”

“I’m walking you to work?” He answers, and Stiles levels him with a look. Derek moves closer, and presses his lips to Stiles’, letting the kiss be sweet and slow. “Wait for me here when you get off work.”

“What do you mean – Derek, wait!” Stiles protests, but Derek is already walking away. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

\--

When Stiles leaves the Great Hall, even before he’s out the large glass doors, he can make out Derek. He’s leaning against a column, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. Stiles takes a moment to appreciate the way his legs fill tight jeans, his powerful shoulders in the jacket. He also mentally pats his own back for being allowed to touch all of it.

“So, are you finally going to explain?” Stiles says, once he’s out the door and half way down the entrance stairs. Derek carefully raises an eyebrow, but otherwise says nothing, offering his hand. Stiles eyes it and has half a mind to not take it, but rather to turn away and stalk off to his dorm room instead. He grudgingly takes it and lets Derek lead him to his car.

Stiles isn’t sure where Derek is taking him, but he refuses to ask. Instead, he irately crosses his arms, and stares out the window. When they pull into a parking lot for what Stiles knows is one of the nicest steakhouses in town, he narrows his eyes suspiciously.

“Why are we here?” Derek parks the car, and huffing turns to Stiles.

“I thought I’d finally take you on a real date. So we can be dating.” Stiles is stunned by the response, his mouth dropping open a little bit. “Unless you don’t want to be.”

“No. No as in – yes, I want to be dating, no as in negating your sentence.” Stiles pauses for a moment. “Is this place expensive?”

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” Derek asks with a rise of his eyebrows.

“No, this place is great. Should we go inside?” The two walk towards the restaurant, and Derek holds the front door open for Stiles. Stiles laughs at the gesture, which makes Derek glare a little. Turns out, the restaurant is busy and they end up with a 45 minute wait. Derek keeps asking Stiles if he’s honestly alright with the wait.

“I can take you somewhere else, there’d be less of a wait—“

“Dude, its fine. Seriously, we have like 15 minutes left. If we leave we’d waste time driving and then have to wait more somewhere else. Let’s just stay, ok?”

“Don’t call me dude.” Derek tries to say, but a waiter announcing their table is ready drowns him out.

Finally at their table, Stiles takes to looking around himself, regretting his choice of purple hoodie, bull’s eye shirt, and ragged jeans. This place is seriously nice, and he feels incredibly underdressed. He eyes Derek as he shrugs off his leather jacket. Derek is slightly more appropriate, dark jeans and a gray Henley that is loose but clingy is all the right ways. Stiles sighs, and jerks his head around when their waiter asks them for their drink order.

“Water,” he blurts, and Derek’s lips quirk in what could be a smile.

“Same,” he says, and the waiter excuses himself, saying he’ll be back for their order in a bit. A short silence stretches between them, with Stiles trying to concentrate on the menu but instead being continually distracted by his surroundings. The room is darkly lit with dark wood, cream table clothes, small sconces in every table nook. His head is again turned around, inspecting the bar area.

“You can order anything you want.” Stiles whips his head around to look at Derek.

“What?”

“You can order whatever you want, don’t worry about what it costs.” Derek’s voice is soft, and Stiles finds himself aching, like he knows it somehow.

“Seriously? This place is expensive. Its—holy shit, twenty bucks for an 8 ounce New York strip, and that’s just the meat. Now, I know not every college student is as broke as I am, but _really?_ How can you afford this?” Derek shrugs and looks back down to his menu.

“Just pick something.” Stiles sighs, acting put upon, but finally concentrates on the menu. He’s barely decided when the waiter returns with their water.

“So, what can I get for you fine gentlemen? Tonight’s house special is the Kobe beef roast, with the house side being roasted scallops, and the soup is white bean chili. I can also grab you a drink menu, since we have some specials on beers tonight.”

“No, that’s fine,” Derek starts. “I’d like the ribeye, 14 ounce, rare, with the scallops.” He then looks at Stiles, while the waiter nods and writes his order down.

“And for you, sir?”

“Oh, the, uh, bacon-wrapped sirloin, 8 ounce? Medium, I guess, and roasted potatoes?” Stiles stutters. The waiter smiles, compliments his choice, then promises to have their meals shortly. Again, a silence stretches between Stiles and Derek. Stiles being the perpetual call of movement and energy that he is, starts bumping his leg to a song only he can hear. He takes this moment to start fiddling with his straw and the paper it came it, folding it, then crumpling it. He’s methodically shredding his napkin when Derek sighs and covers Stiles’ hand in his own. Stiles looks up from their hands, his mouth slightly open.

“Calm down. I swear the entire restaurant can hear you twitching.”

“I’m nervous, and tense. You bring me here with no warning and expect me to just sit quietly.” Stiles scoff, then adds under his breath: “And I’m ADHD, so good luck with me sitting quietly.” Derek rolls his eyes at that, taking his hand back to cross his arms on the edge of the table. He’s opening his mouth to say something when the waiter arrives with their food. With a caution of how hot the plates are, Stiles stares at his food.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen something so beautiful.” Derek laughs at that and starts in on his own steak. Stiles takes a bite of his sirloin and groans, feeling like he’s in danger of creaming himself. With every bite, he makes a little moan of pleasure.

“This is seriously the best thing I have ever eaten, besides curly fries. How’s yours?” Derek only grunts, not looking up from his plate. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Derek grinds out, sawing at his meat and stuffing it into his mouth. Stiles shrugs and takes another bite of his own, groaning. He finishes his steak and stares sadly at his plate.

“I’m so full, but I want more. I want to throw up just so I can eat another one.”

“ _Jesus_ , Stiles,” Derek finally looks up at him. Stiles smiles a little guiltily and shrugs. It’s just then when their waiter reappears.

“How are we doing? Would you like to see the drink menu maybe, or were you be interested in some dessert?” Stiles feels himself getting sick at the idea of dessert.

“No, we’ll be fine. I need the check, though.” When the waiter offers to split it, Derek declines and says he’ll be paying.  Stiles shifts uneasily, not knowing how to act in this situation. After the waiter walks away, he can’t help himself.

“So, the next time we go out, do I pay?” Derek shrugs at the question, already digging into his back pocket for his wallet, leaning back into the chair and lifting his hips in a way that makes Stiles blush. “Or are you going to be my sugar daddy?” Derek looks up from his wallet, fingers on a card, his eyebrows asking him if he’s an idiot.

“I’m not your sugar daddy.” Then he narrows his eyes. “I’m your boyfriend.” Stiles blushes and looks away, catching their waiter making for their table with a small black book. Before the waiter says anything, Derek hands him a card.

“So, what’s the thing Erica is going to tell me if you don’t?” Derek rolls his eyes at the question.

“I can’t believe you won’t drop that.”

“Hey, I fixate. Now, are you going to tell me, or should I text her?”

“Hang on,” Derek says, spotting the waiter making his way back with a slip for him to sign and his card. Once he’s signed and put his card back in his pockets, he’s standing, pulling his coat back on. Derek moves to stand near Stiles, taking his hand, then leads him to the door. The staff thanks them and welcomes them back, so Stiles smiles and waves. Once they’re back in the car, Stiles turns to Derek. They sit, Derek with his hands on the wheel but not starting the car. For once, Stiles says nothing.

Mostly out of refusal. He refuses to start every conversation.

“Nine years ago, a person started fire to my family home while my sister and I were at school. Eight people burned alive in the house, my uncle survived, but he was a vegetable. My sister and I decided he didn’t deserve that, so we pulled the plug.” Derek’s voice is flat. A shiver runs up Stiles’ spine, the emptiness of Derek’s voice grating on his nerves.

Stiles is turned towards Derek, while Derek is still facing forwards, hands on the wheel. He aches to reach out to comfort, to touch, but Stiles isn’t sure. He starts to reach out and aborts the movement, his hand ending up close to Derek’s knee.

“My sister and I moved to New York and lived there for a while. She finished school, then we went back home. She got a job working as a counselor at the high school in the next town, and I tried to go college, but dropped out and started working as a mechanic.” Finally, Derek turns toward Stiles, his leg brushing against Stiles’ hand. “Then, Laura was in a car accident. And I came here to finish school, because she’d want that. She always thought art was what I needed to deal with this. So that’s what I’m doing.” 

Stiles doesn’t claim to have a thought in his head, so all he does is lean forward and press his lips to Derek’s temple, his right cheek, just below his eye. Derek closes his eyes and leans into the kiss. Stiles then slowly kisses his lips, letting all his emotions seep into it. It makes Derek gasp and he presses into it. When they pull apart, Stiles feels his face is a little wet. 

Stiles doesn’t start to say anything, just opens his mouth and smirks a little, looking away from Derek. Derek leans toward him, cupping his face in a large hand, his thumb pressing to the wetness on his cheek.

“I know it doesn’t compare,” he starts, nuzzling into Derek’s hand, “but my mom died five years ago.” _And it was my fault_ goes the unspoken confession. Derek shakes his head. “Maybe it just means I understand. I know that pain of losing your world.”

Derek nods, his eyes closing, before he takes his hand away from Stiles’ face. He starts the car and takes Stiles back to campus.

\--

 They’re idling in front of Stiles’ dorm in silence, holding hands.

 “I don’t want to be alone in my room right now,” Stiles says, looking out his window to the tall building. He hates his room, really, with its too small window and fluorescent lights that make everyone look sick. Derek nods, and eases the car out of the parking lot. He hadn’t said anything since his confession.

 When they pull up in Derek’s drive way, Derek gets out first and comes around to Stiles’ door before he even has his seat belt off and opens the door for him. Stiles stands and finds himself surprisingly close to Derek. They have a moment where they share breaths, before Derek is leaning, resting his forehead on Stiles’, eyes closed. Stiles refuses to blink, taking in Derek, the tiredness of him.

 Derek takes his hand and kisses it, before leading him into the house. He makes his way through the house without turning any lights on. Stiles trails close behind, trying not to knock anything over. The bedroom is small, most of the room taken up by a large bed. Even in the dark, Stiles can see the walls are white, the sheets a rich gray, and the dresser and night stand are a matching dark wood. Stiles turns to take in more of the room, and catches out of the corner of his eye Derek shucking off his jacket and shirt. He notices Stiles watching and steps over, crowding into his space. His backpack sliding down his arms, Derek pushes Stiles’ hoodie off his shoulder, palming his chest and letting fingers trail down the other’s side. 

The backpack and hoodie fall to the floor in a heap, Stiles leaning into Derek as his fingers pulled at the hem of his shirt, pressing to the warm skin underneath. Their lips touch in a slow kiss that grows into something passionate and rushed, as Stiles lets Derek push his shirt up over his head. He presses his hands flat against Derek’s back, arching himself so he’s pressed all along Derek’s front. Derek groans into his mouth, and drops his hands to Stiles’ waistband, fingers clutching at the material and pulling him closer.

When Derek unbuttons the pants, his hand sliding in and cupping Stiles, he gasps and bucks into the touch. Stiles scrabbles at his back a little, trying to get a good grip so he can pull Derek closer while still kissing him. In the action, he slots his knee in between Derek’s legs. He grinds down on it, groaning.

 “Oh… oh my god,” Stiles stutters. Derek hums in response, nosing at Stiles’ neck before he licks then bites the sensitive skin. Stiles groans again. “Ok, ok, bed now?” Derek hums again, and hoists Stiles up, making Stiles wrap his legs and arms around Derek. The added height gives him a wonderful advantage to kissing Derek, so he takes advantage of it.

He bounces a little when Derek drops him on the bed. Grinning up at him, Stiles slips his jeans and boxers down his thighs. Derek smirks back and leans down, ghosting a kiss over Stiles’ lips. His grin grows with Stiles’ gasp, his hand wrapped around Stiles. Stiles tries not to thrust into the tightness of it, and throws his head back.

“Derek,” he grits out. Instead of waiting for Derek to move, he shoves his own hands down, and fumbles with Derek’s button before finally undoing it. He pushes at the jeans and boxers until Derek leans back and helps Stiles. The pants drop to his knees with a shimmy, making Stiles groan again.

“You—you are too—Just come here,” Stiles stutters, and Derek laughs, but he leans forward obligingly. Derek groans as Stiles gets a grip on him, making a tight circle with his thumb and middle finger. He pulls slowly from base to tip, watching Derek’s face as he closes his eyes and rumbles deep in his chest. Stiles is readjusting, trying to get a better angle for his grip when Derek pushes his hand away, grabbing both of their dicks in one big hand. There’s a moment of stillness, shared breathes while Derek shifts, getting his grip just right.

He starts pumping his fist, and Stiles moans a litany of swears. Which he later will claim is an ode to Derek’s perfect hand. Derek keeps pumping, their pre-cum acting as lube. When Stiles throws his head back, unable to watch anymore, Derek takes the opportunity to suck a hickey into his neck.

“Derek, I’m going to come,” Stiles whimpers, legs trembling, hands clawing at Derek’s shoulders.

“Want to see you come,” Derek finally speaks, eyes on Stiles’ face. “Want to hear you come, like the sounds you made at the restaurant.” And Stiles comes, arching his back. A warmth covers his stomach and he knows that’s going to be a pain to clean up.

But he’s more concerned with Derek still leaning over him. His hand stops pumping, and he leans over to kiss Stiles, hand trailing through his semen.

“Let me,” Stiles tries to say between kisses. “I want to make you come, let me help you.” Derek shakes his head, hand between them.

“No, just stay like that.” And Stiles does, stays beneath Derek. He shifts and raises his arms over his head, sprawling beneath him. “Just wanna fuck you, be fucked by you,” he groans as he continues to pump at his own cock 

“We can do that,” Stiles blurts. “We should so do that, can we do that right now?” Derek laughs a little, still jacking himself off. Stiles, growing impatient, pushes Derek’s hand away and begins jacking him himself. He adds a little twist to the end of his strokes, a little awkward by the angle. It isn’t long until Derek is muttering a swear and coming all over Stiles’ stomach, adding to the mess.

The two flop onto the bed, Derek carefully rearranging himself so his weight isn’t all on Stiles. There’s a long moment of silence filled with heavy breaths and loose limbs.

“So, I kind of need a towel or something,” Stiles sighs, and Derek rolls of the bed with a thump and a grunt. He returns shortly with a moist hand towel, wipes off the mess, and slaps Stiles in the face with his boxers. Stiles laughs and puts the boxers back on while watching appreciatively while Derek pulls on a pair of clean boxers. He drops back into the bed besides Stiles.

“What now?” Stiles asks.

“We sleep,” Derek huffs, pulling Stiles into his chest before laying back into his pillows. Stiles opens his mouth to say he’ll never fall asleep like this when Derek softly slaps his head. He glares indignantly and drops his head onto Derek’s chest, deciding resolutely to not fall asleep. When Derek’s breath evens out, Stiles can’t help but to match it and doesn’t remember falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I felt bad about not updating in a while, so here's a kind of long chapter for you all! This hasn't been looked at by anyone but myself, so hopefully there aren't many typos or errors.
> 
> I'm going to set this to 12 chapters. With my current outline, 12 chapters is looking about right. Hopefully, it'll be about 80k words as well.
> 
> Also, I'd like to take a moment to thank everyone who reads this, comments, leaves kudos or bookmarks this. I adore you all and am happy you enjoy my writing!
> 
> Another thing I'd like to say is I'm very busy. I'm finishing up my senior year, getting a BFA in Art. So there's going to be some week where I simply can't afford to work on this. I have a lot going on in my life, school, work, boyfriend, so I hope you all understand. However, don't lose hope! In my spare time, I'm going to crank this sucker out, so hopefully when there's times when I can't work on this, there will be a backlog of updates for you all to enjoy.
> 
> Alright, I hope you liked the chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles groans, and leans his head back, his legs cramping. He’d rub his hands over his shorn hair, if they weren’t filthy.

“Seriously, Derek,” he whines. “How much longer are you going to take?” Derek doesn’t respond, but rather grunts, bent over, hands filthy as well. Groaning again, Stiles arches his back and rocks his head back and forth, trying to stretch out the muscles. A few moments pass in silence, besides the squelching noise from Derek’s hands. “I can’t take this, it’s physically painful how bored I am.”

Derek levels him with a glare, as if offended. “I told you that you didn’t have to come, I can do this on my own.” Instead of getting angry in return, Stiles just stares at him, willing Derek to understand his feelings through his sheer force of will.

“What kind of boyfriend would I be if I did that?” Derek shrugs, turning his attention back to his hands, messy up to the wrist. He opens his mouth, snaps it shut, keeping his eyes on his hands. Stiles watches as he sets his jaw, and decidedly avoids making eye contact. “Fine, whatever. I have homework, I’ll see you after work?” He says reproachfully. “If you finish, otherwise I’ll see you tomorrow.” Standing, Stiles walks to the sink to rinse his hands and to empty his bowl of murky water.

For a moment, he stares at the lumpy bowl he had been trying to throw, flapping dirty hands at Derek every time he tried to fix it. His eyes flit over to the other bowls, the ones Derek had thrown. They’re beautiful, smooth and light, graceful curving forms. His fingers itch, and he can’t wait to see them finished, fired and glazed, so he can cradle them carefully in his hands.

After his wheel is mopped up and his bowl thrown into the slip barrel to be recycled, Stiles shoulders his bag. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Derek sitting almost dejectedly at his stool, staring down at his wheel, another bowl sitting before him. He looks up, and Stiles can see the apology in his eyes, even if his jaw is still set. If he weren’t smiling, Stiles would sigh and simply walk away.

Instead, he’s drawn in my Derek’s ridiculous pout, and takes the few steps to stand beside him, leaning in and pecking at his lips.

“I’m not mad, I swear,” he soothes. Derek nods, not making eye contact, eyes on the bowl still on his wheel. Stiles moves to stand, but Derek surges to his feet, chasing his mouth with his own. Smiling into the kiss, Stiles groans happily, fisting his hands into Derek’s clay covered shirt. He feels the heat radiating from Derek’s hands at they hover over his face, his arms, his back, not quite touching, for fear of making a mess.

So Stiles pushes himself against Derek, pulling their bodies flush together. A groan escapes into his mouth, and he grins, licking into Derek’s mouth. Derek pulls away, eyes half lidded, lips red and swollen. He wipes his hands off on his stupid little apron and grabs Stiles by the front of his t-shirt. Tugging, he pulls Stiles, leading him further into the ceramics lab.

“What’re you—“ Stiles starts, when he realizes Derek is leading him into the windowless clay-mixing room. The room is small, with a heavy door, and a giant re-purposed dough mixer taking up a majority of the room. Most of the other space is taken up by barrels of dry mix clay, and small buckets of chemicals for the glazes the upper level students make.

Derek lets the door fall shut behind them, then pushes Stiles against it, caging him in with his arms. Stiles can’t help but arch himself into Derek, so their chests are completely flush again. He grins when Derek groans and fits their mouths together. They fight for control of the kiss, pushing against one another, nipping at each other’s lips. Derek finally wins when he cups Stiles, hard in his jeans.

“Cheater,” he groans, resisting the urge to grind down into his hand. Derek huffs a laugh, and noses at Stiles’ throat before sucking a kiss into his pulse point. Stiles groans again, and does grind down onto his hand. He breathes heavily through is mouth, head thrown back against the door, eyes screwed shut. “What if someone walks in?”

“They won’t,” Derek rumbles, lips still on his neck. His fingers of one hand slide along his dick, straining painfully against his zipper, while the other fiddles with his button, teasing with the possibility of release.

“How do you know?” He opens his eyes when Derek raises his mouth from his neck.

“Because I do,” and he pops the button open, hand slipping into his pants, dry from the clay. Stiles sucks in a breath and swears. A grin twitches at Derek’s lips, his face intense as he watches Stiles’ face. Dropping to his knees, Derek shimmies Stiles’ jeans and boxers down, just enough to get his cock out.

“Oh my god,” Stiles’ gasps, and closes his eyes, willing himself not to come just from the sight of Derek’s mouth that close to his dick. “Oh my god.” He shudders when he feels a breathe ghost against the sensitive skin, a rough hand wrapped around the base.

Then there’s warmth, and wet, and sucking. Stiles’ groans, hands scrabbling against the door, and tries to stay standing. He chances a look down, sees Derek’s cheeks hollowed, bobbing his head and jacking him with his hand at the same time. A litany of swears fall from his mouth, and Stiles’ leans his head back again, hands finding Derek’s shoulder, neck, hair.

He rubs his hands over every part of Derek he can reach, almost shouts when Derek takes more of him into his mouth, tongue swirling around the ridge of the head.

“Oh god, oh mother fffuu-“ he gasps, watching now, eyes wide. “I’m going to, I’m going to come.” He’s breathless, hands shaking as he twists his fingers into Derek’s hair. Derek nods, pushing his dick deep into his mouth and sucking, eyes flicking up to Stiles’. His balls clench and he feels too big for his skin, heat burning along his spine. Derek licks the semen that didn’t quite make it into his mouth, smiling smugly.

“Ugh, you dick, are you going always act like this?” Stiles’ bitches, boneless and sagging against the door. Derek smirks then, a full on shit eating grin, and his heart stutters in his chest at the sight. He notices that Derek’s hard, his erection visible under his apron.

"Let me-- I wanna," Stiles pants, still breathless, sliding down the door. Derek eyes him, watching his hands. When Stiles leans forward, running his hands over Derek’s chest before pushing until he’s sitting on his ass, legs spread in front of him. He crawls until he’s between those powerful legs, and kisses Derek, licking his way into his mouth, standing on his knees, so Derek’s head is thrown back. Stiles runs his hand over Derek’s neck and shoulders, then drops his hand to his hip.

He groans when Stiles kisses his neck, lifting the hem of his clay-splattered wife-beater. Leaning back, Stiles spreads his hands over his abs, feeling the muscles flutter under his fingertips. Worrying his lip between his teeth, Stiles slides a hand under the apron, palming Derek’s hard dick through his jeans. His breath stutters, a low whine caught in his throat. 

"Come on, just, do something," he grumbles when Stiles runs his hand over his dick again and lets his hips buck into the touch. He growls as Stiles pushes the apron up, trying to get it out of the way.

"Get this... off," Stiles grouses, pushing at the fabric. Derek undoes the ties and throws it across the room. With the silly thing finally out of the way, Stiles sighs and pushes Derek back again and pops open the button. He grins when Derek stutters out a sigh as his dick slips free. Stiles hands shake a little as he pushes Derek’s shirt up more.

He takes a moment to marvel at the sigh. Derek laid out before him, legs still framing him, pants and boxers pushed down to reveal his hard dick, leaking pre-come on his exposed stomach. His breath comes a little harder and he positions himself, mouth close to Derek’s dick.

One last breath and Stiles licks his dick, from base to tip, before he wraps his lips around the head and sucks. Derek groans, and he glances up to see his head thrown back, hands fisted at his sides. He takes that as hint, and rushes on, taking more of his dick in his mouth. Stiles realizes after a few minutes that he isn’t built for blowjobs, his jaw aching. For a moment, he considers just jacking him off instead, but before he commits to the change of plans, he has an idea. A wicked idea, really.

He keeps sucking Derek off, one hand gripped around the base of his cock to keep it upright. He lets his other hand roam, cupping Derek’s balls, scratching at his thigh, enjoying the way his muscles tremble. Without a warning, Stiles pops his mouth off Derek’s dick, and licks his balls. Derek bucks in surprise, and groans. Stiles revels in the sound, and takes a moment to suck on his finger, coating it in his spit. He takes Derek back into this mouth, making him groan again. Derek leans back, balanced on his elbows, and widens his legs more.

Keeping his eyes on Derek’s face, Stiles trails his finger over his crack, under his balls. He swears Derek shivers. Slipping his finger in-between his cheeks, Stiles runs a finger over his puckered hole. Derek’s breathe catches. Stiles takes as much of Derek’s dick into his mouth as he can, simultaneously pushing his spit-slicked finger the tight ring of muscle. 

“Fuck,” Derek gasps. Stiles would grin, and preen, if his mouth weren’t wrapped around Derek’s dick still. Instead, he continues to bob his head, swirling his tongue as he sucks. Derek takes a shuddering breathe and Stiles knows he has to be close. Stiles slips his finger out a little before pushing it back in and crooking it, looking for that sweet spot that will have Derek coming in seconds.

He finds it, curls his finger into it a second time and Derek is coming wordlessly down his throat. Looking up, Stiles finds Derek has his head thrown back, mouth open and panting. 

“That good, huh?” Stiles starts, already preening. Derek glares down at him for a moment, and then pulls him up for a kiss.

___

 

“We,” Stiles pauses to giggle, “Are drunk.”

“Yes, we are,” Erica agrees, mildly.

“So very very drunk,” Stiles manages to slur out, while clinging to his silly lady beer. Or, that’s what Erica called it, when she pulled it from the back of her mini-fridge and handed it to Stiles.

“The boys always get me the light stuff,” she had said disdainfully, pushing the strawberry daiquiri into his hands. “They taste good, but they’re just the lady version of beer. Well, they’re a flavored beer, is all.” She then pulled a bottle of rum, vodka, tequila and coke. “I’m making a cheap version of long islands tonight.”

“Ugh, why did I let you do this to me?” Stiles complains, wavering in his seat. “I thought we were friends.” Laughter fills the small room, Erica’s little single room in the all girl’s dorm. She keeps laughing while Stiles lays his head on her desk, drink still in hand of course. “I thought we were working on our stupid project,” he mumbled into the cheap wood.

“We were, but we agreed doing it drunk would be much more fun. You just didn’t tell me you were such a light weight.” She’s mocking him now, and Stiles manages a glare at her with his face still smashed into the desk. It only makes her laugh harder.

It’s comfortable, Stiles suddenly thinks to himself. It’s comfortable to be friends with Erica, there’s something about it that makes it easy. He’s proud of himself for finally making a friend, a real college buddy. There’s the Pack Radio playing in the background, and Erica’s in a loose T-shirt that looks big enough to be Boyd or Derek’s. It’s nice she doesn’t feel like she has to pretend around him. Stiles hums happily.

“This is comfortable,” he tells her. “It’s so awesome, my first college friend. I should take you home with me or something, like for spring break, meet Dad and my other friends. It’s nice, this is nice. I like you.”

“Oh god, you are drunk, you are shit-faced.” Erica’s eyes are wide. “Are you always like this drunk?”

“What? Noooooo,” Stiles whine, face still pressed into the desk. He pops up. “We should call the radio. Erica, let’s call the radio.” The smirk he gets in response would be scary if he didn’t know Erica better.

No, wait, it’s still scary.

“Boyd’s working tonight, let’s do this.”

___

 

“We need a joke. We need to start telling jokes. The current plan of attack isn’t working.”

“We need a different phone number, they know both of ours. I work there, you call every night…”

“What if we call someone who works at the radio, but will be an accomplice?”

“I don’t know, we can’t call Boyd or Isaac or—I know who to call,” Erica breathes, clearly excited. “I know who to call!” An evil cackle seems just under the surface.

“Oh my god, oh my god who?” Stiles bobs excitedly in his seat.

“Greenburg!”

“Greenburg? Who’s Greenburg?”

“He manages the music library, organizes the records and CDs. Oh god, this is perfect.” Erica’s cackling again, as she pulls out her phone, thumbing through her contacts.

“Wait, what joke are we telling?”

“Well, he has to put us on air before we can—“

“We need a joke! We need something to say.”

“You’re the funny one, Batman,” Erica retorts, eyebrow cocked.

“You look so much like Derek right now, Catwoman,” he mocks. Putting his index fingers over his eye brows, Stiles angles them to mimic Derek’s scowl. “Wait, I have the perfect joke!”

“Ok, calling!” She puts the phone on speaker, and the two crowd in close to it.

“Erica?” A nasally voice asks, sounding tinny through the line.

“Yeah, can you put me through? Like, as a caller, but don’t say it’s me!”

“Why should I?” He sounds suspicious. Stiles assumes he’s a ginger just from his voice.

“Because I asked nicely,” Erica flips her hair over her shoulder, and Stiles knows a cat fight when he sees one starting.

“But you didn’t—“

“Put me through!” The station hold music starts playing, and they know they’ve been transferred. “Greenburg…” Erica mutters. “No one likes Greenburg.” Stiles hums in agreement.

“Hello, caller,” a familiar voice answers. Stiles grins. Oh how he loves harassing the Alpha. “How’re you tonight?”

“Oh, we are fantastic,” Erica practically purrs into the phone. 

“Erica—“

“We have a joke, to lighten the show up a little bit!” She crows, interrupting the Alpha. She elbows Stiles sharply in the side.

“Jesus Christ, take it easy. Ok, joke. It’s a good one.” Stiles takes a deep breath, and looks at Erica from the corner of his eye. “Knock knock!”

“What are you doing?” It’s Boyd this time.

“Noooo,” Stiles whines. “You’re supposed to say ‘whose there’!” A sigh rings clearly through the phone and the radio stream on Erica’s laptop.

“Fine,” the Alpha almost growls, and for a second Stiles thinks he knows—“Whose there?”

“Interrupting wolf!”

“Oh dear lor—“ Boyd starts.

“Interrupting wolf wh—“ Then Stiles starts howling, high and obnoxious. Erica picks up quickly, howling loudly next to him, and grin wide on her face. They keep howling, until they’re a laughing mess and the station has long since hung up on them. They even miss Boyd and the Alpha introducing the next song.

“Ok,” Erica finally says, sitting up and pushing Stiles off her. “We need another joke.”

___

Groaning, Stiles rolls onto his side and tries to reach for his phone that's on Erica's desk. Or he would, if Erica didn't wrap herself around Stiles and complain loudly every time he tried to move.

"Come on, let me at least check my phone!"

“Nooooo,” she whines into his ear, pulling him close and forcing him to be the little spoon.

“Oh my god, do you do this Boyd and Isaac too?”

“Yes, all the time. We like cuddling. Derek cuddles with us to sometimes.”

“Are you saying,” Stiles starts carefully, trying unsuccessfully to face Erica, “You guys have cuddle puddles without me?” 

“We didn’t know you’d like them?”

“Dude,” He finally does shift enough to look her in the face. “I love cuddling. I used to make my best friend sleep in my bed almost weekly, just to get out cuddle on. We have an epic bromance, the most loving and hetero-life-mate status of bromances. You do not understand my need for cuddles.”

For a while, they lay, content. There’s no need to talk, simply happy and horribly drunk. 

“I’m out of rum,” Erica eventually says, balefully.

“But why is the rum always gone?” Stiles quotes.

“Seriously? Of all the things to quote…” she sniffs disdainfully as she throws her leg over his hip. “Stiles, I don’t know if you can be Batman anymore.”

There’s another long silence. Stiles feels himself drifting off, warm and happy. 

“You know, Derek means a lot to me, to us. Boyd, Isaac and me, us.” Erica’s voice is quiet, almost as if she’s close to sleep as well. Stiles hums in response. “He’s done so much for all of us. None of us were happy, you know, and he saved us all. In a way. Maybe he’s Batman, and we’re all Robin.” She grows quiet.

Turning over, Stiles looks her in the face, her eyes are closed, her brows drawn. Reaching out, he smoothes her hair back from her face.

“Yeah?”

“Derek paid for my treatments, I was having so many seizures, I had to leave school, his sister was my high school counselor. And Derek, he paid for my treatments. And Isaac, he took custody of Isaac so he could get away from that horrible place. Then, Boyd was just around, more and more, and the next thing we know, Derek’s talking to him all the time, telling him it wasn’t his fault. Wasn’t his fault his little sister went missing, never was found. Derek was there for all of us. Stiles, he means so much to us.” 

Her voice is quiet, and calm, only the smallest hint of emotion. The entire time, Erica keeps her eyes closed. When Stiles doesn’t answer, she looks thoughtfully at him.

“I don’t know what to say,” he confides. “It’s amazing. Like I knew he was awesome from the start. He’s so good around you guys, and I’ve seen him tense. He really loves you guys….” There’s a prickle, a hurt for a second, but Stiles refuses to acknowledge it.

Another silence spreads between them. Stiles can’t decide if it’s strained or not, until Erica tuck herself in close, her head under his chin. Comfortable, he thinks to himself again, an echo of thoughts from earlier. He’s just opening his mouth to say something when there’s a knock on the door.

“Erica? Stiles, I know you two are in there.” It’s Derek’s voice and Stiles sits up quickly. “I know you two are drunk too!”

“Shit,” Erica swears under her breath, and pushes the sheet back to crawl out of bed. Derek stands in the entrance once she gets the door open. He’s got his leather jacket on, even though the weather’s starting to warm up. “Heeeey, Derek.”

“You, in bed,” he barks, pushing her away. Making his way to her mini-fridge, he glares at Stiles. “And you, I’m taking you back to your room.” Its then that Stiles notices Derek has a plastic bag with what looks like Pedialyte and Gatorade in it. 

Stiles scrambles to his feet, hastily pushing his arms into his hoodie while Derek puts a few of the bottles in Erica’s fridge.

“Drink them in the morning,” he order, glaring down at Erica while she wraps herself in her blankets. She mumbles something Stiles can’t quite hear, but Derek must. He huffs, laughing a little before kissing her forehead.

Turning to Stiles, Derek grabs his arm and starts leading him out of Erica’s dorm building.

“Why are you here?” Stiles eventually asks, once they’re outside in the crisp air. It’s still a little cold and suddenly he’s jealous of Derek’s leather jacket. His hoodie isn’t cutting it.

“Because Boyd was complaining about you guys and your calls to the radio.” He notices Stiles’ shivering, and opens his jacket, allowing him to curl into his side. “You’re going to trip us both his way.”

“But you’re so warm! Also, speaking of Boyd, you should make them stop fighting. It’s horrible.” They pause for a moment, Derek adjusting his jacket. Stiles takes the opportunity to push himself closer, and shoves his cold nose against Derek’s neck.

“Stiles!” He yelps at the contact, making Stiles cackle. “And I can’t make them do anything. They just need to talk it out.”

“They’re never going to talk at this rate. She doesn’t go near them and they make no effort.” Stiles huffs, and concentrates on walking for a moment, instead of Derek dragging him. “It’s like the Cold War and I’m not the US or Russia. I’m some third world country in the middle, taken hostage.” Derek laughs a little at that.

“You are not.”

“Please, please just talk to them. Make it stop, or just put me out of my misery.”

“Keys?” Is what Derek responds with instead, readjusting his plastic bag of drinks and reaching out to Stiles.

“Oh, oh yeah,” and he only just now realizes they’re outside his building. He pulls out his keys and fob, passing them to Derek. Derek waves the plastic thing in front of the sensor and the door beeps, light turning green. They walk quietly up the stairs, Stiles clinging to the railing and Derek close behind him.

“I am so drunk. Why am I so drunk? Who let this happen? How am I an adult?” He complains, feet falling heavily on every step. Derek laughs again, hands low on his back, steadying him.

“You’re almost there,” he soothes.

“So close, and yet so far away,” They take another few steps, their footfalls echoing in the stairwell. “You should carry me.”

“No.”

“Come on, please? I’m not that heavy!”

“No, Stiles.”

“I’m asking nicely,” he says as he comes to the stop of the stairs. “You’re built, my big strong man. Please?”

“Stiles, I am not carrying you. We’re like, ten feet from your door anyways.”

“Ugh, worst boyfriend ever,” Stiles grumbles and follows Derek closely to his room. Derek unlocks the door and shoves Stiles in, then drops the keys onto his desk.

“Yeah, whatever. Get in bed.”

“Don’t wanna,” Stiles drawls, draping himself over his cheap desk chair. Then lifting his arms, he makes grabby hands. “ ‘Mere.”

“What,” Derek glares.

“Just, ‘mere.” Sighing, Derek steps close and Stiles wrapped his arms around his waist.

“I like you best,” he mumbles into Derek’s thin tank top.

“You are very drunk.” There’s a laugh in Derek’s voice, and it makes Stiles smile into his tummy. Plus, he likes the rumble of his voice against his face. “Come on, you need to get in bed.”

“Nooooo,” Stiles complains again, going limp as Derek tries to pull him up to his feet. Sighing, Derek lifts Stiles before bodily dropping him onto the bed. The frame protests loudly. From the bed, Stiles watches Derek move around his room, finding a home for the drinks and then peeling off his jacket and draping it over the chair.

“Wait, are you staying?”

Derek levels him with a look. Turning away, Derek bends to untie his boots. Stiles takes the moment to admire his ass, and if he weren’t so drunk, his dick would definitely be taking interest. 

“Yes, I’m staying,” Derek assures as he straightens up and toes off his boots. He pads lightly to the bed, and pushes Stiles to make room for himself.

“You should take off your pants, you’ll be more comfortable.” Derek shoots him another looks before turning his eyes skyward. It’s a look Stiles is very familiar with. His dad wears it often.

“We’re not having sex.”

“I didn’t say we were. I was saying you’d be more comfortable.” Derek looks like he might hit him when he sighs and starts to unbutton his pants. Stiles smiles triumphantly and shuck off his own jeans, and then on a second thought, pulls off his over-shirt. He’s balling it up and throwing it to the pile of clothes beyond the end of his bed when Derek slides in under the covers next to him.

After a few moments of moving around each other, trying to make room for both of them in the small bed, Derek pulls Stiles flush against his front. He sighs happily into Stiles’ neck, and tangles their legs together. They settle in to one another, muscles loosening and relaxing. Moments pass in silence, and Stiles thinks he’s never been happier.

“Wait,” his eyes fly open with a realization. “Why am I always the little spoon?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got so long, oh my god, I'm dying.
> 
> Ok, so, this is probably shit. I am so sorry.
> 
> If you want to yell at me, please yell at me on my tumblr. I'm haleswallows these days.


End file.
